I woke up this morning to the memory of a person from my past. She was not someone I was close with. I saw her a few times per week during the years that were occupying the same world. But I don’t recall having a conversation with her that lasted more than a few seconds.
A few details about her come to mind but they may all be false memories. Maybe I remember where she was from. I remember some of her art. And how stark the difference was between how she looked most days and the how she looked on the one occasion where I saw her with make-up and hair done.
What was most striking about her was her eyes. And maybe because I so vividly remember her eyes, I imagine that there must have been some moment where I stared intently into them. Surely a casual, passing glance wouldn’t leave an impression that would resurface years later and manifest in my body as intense…curiosity.
I wonder how she has been.
I couldn’t recall her name at first, but it didn’t take long find her. We have mutual connections. I found a current picture and it was undoubtedly her. I scrolled down to find the version of her I remember just to confirm.
I felt embarrassed not to remember her name.
At the time I met her, I was operating under an assumed identity. I still am. But it was a different one then. As I left that person behind I also left all the people who knew him behind as well.
Every once in a while one of these manufactured memories pop up to remind me who I was pretending to be. I have no way to confirm how much of what I remember is real. That is one of the things that friends do for each other. They go through things together and bare witness to each others lives. They can get together later to compare notes and come to some sort of rough approximation what actually happened.
But when I leave people behind I leave the memories with them. I can make up new ones but they won’t have the quality of a thing I actually lived through. No matter how many details I recall, it is hard to place myself. It is as though it all happened to someone else.
I wonder what it is like to be known. And to be aware that you are known. It could be the case that I am transparent as glass and my attempts at hiding no more affective than covering my own eyes with my hands.
But if the way that people generally respond to me is any indication, they don’t really know me. They only know of who I happened to be at the moment when they met me. And, as much as I can, I try to keep all those characters straight in my mind to show up in ways that I can be recognized.
With all of that going on, it is no wonder I couldn’t remember her name.
G. Forte 
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